Reginald Hill - Blood Sympathy

Joe was still trying to find a way out of this madness via reason.

He said, ‘If this love charm’s so powerful, why doesn’t she just use it to make your husband take off with her now?’

Ms Baker’s lips drew back from her mouth, showing a pair of long sharp incisors in a smile so unmistakably malicious that for the first time Joe began to consider the real possibility that she was a witch.

She opened her purse and took out a thin silken white cord, about nine inches long with a single complex knot tied in it.

‘Because of this,’ she said. ‘While this knot is tied, Gerald can burn with desire, but there’s nothing he can do about it. The knot gets loosened only when he’s in my bed.’

Joe looked in horror at the limp white cord. He began to feel a certain masculine sympathy for Gerald the Hyphen.

‘And does your husband have any idea that you and Merchison are …?’

‘Adepts? Of course not!’ She laughed. ‘He lectures in political economics at the University of Bedfordshire. What could he understand of such things? You on the other hand, Mr Sixsmith, with your ethnic background …’

‘I was born in Luton,’ protested Joe for the second time in twenty-four hours.

‘It’s the bloodline that counts,’ she said dismissively. ‘I was born in Bexhill, but my mother’s family have lived near Pendleton in Lancashire since Tudor times at least.’

The detail of the boast was lost on Joe but he got the drift. He opened his mouth to assert indignantly that he was tired of people deciding on the colour of his skin that he must be into voodoo and dreamtime and all that rubbish, but the sight of that knotted cord still dangling from Ms Baker’s fingers gave him pause.

‘Why’d you go to But … to Cherry, Ms Baker?’ he asked.

‘I tossed and turned all night in that hospital bed and I knew I had to do something. I needed an agent, but he had to be guaranteed discreet and sympathetic. I thought of my own lawyers but decided they’d be useless. Wrong class of business, you see. Then I remembered Cherry. It was worth a try. I discharged myself from hospital and went straight round to that hellhole she calls a law centre. When I explained discreetly what I needed, she came up with you. She told me you weren’t exactly Philip Marlowe but that you had what she called blood sympathy.’

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